


Rendering Death and Forever

by Tsume_Yuki



Series: Amative [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU of Rhaegar's Odes, Drabbles, Eloping, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Gen, Love Drunk, Master of Death Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-05-27 11:13:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15023336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsume_Yuki/pseuds/Tsume_Yuki
Summary: In which Rhaegar Targaryen chooses love over duty.(AU of Rhaegar's Odes)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know anymore. Enjoy the start of this drabble series.

 

 

 

It starts on a storm filled night. Well, perhaps that isn’t quite true. It starts on a well-travelled road, but it also begins in the fires of a hall and in a small cottage with a flash of green. It starts in a multitude of places in truth. Perhaps it would be more apt to say there is no true start at all, just building moments, the steady coalition of pressure until finally it erupts and boils over for all to see.

Only, that too is quite the falsity. It is in-fact the crux of the issue that the problem cannot be seen, that not one soul had thought it coming in the slightest.

Rhaegar Targaryen is missing.

So, it would mayhap be quite correct to state it did in fact begin on one thunder filled night, forks and tongues of lightning licking across the deep grey of rolling clouds. It starts when, upon the King’s orders, Ser Arthur Dayne goes to retrieve the Silver Prince and finds nought but an empty room. It starts with a letter, addressed not to the King nor the Queen, but an open missive for all to hear.

 

_And this Targaryen madness,_

_it grips tight, woven round ribs,_

_breath hot as it kisses the nape of a neck,_

_it compels the truth to spill free._

_To this land, I am dedicated._

_But I shan’t sacrifice all, shan’t be without that which I treasure above even my own breath._

_Should the land and crown have true and desperate need, I will return._

_Until such an instance,_

_it is with my goddess I shall reside._

-Rhaegar Targaryen

 

And he is gone. The sword he favours absent of its common resting place, harp stolen from its usual residence by the window seat. There are scant few outfits left within the draws and the dark armour embedded with rubies commissioned for Rhaegar’s eighteenth name-day (coincidentally the date upon which his upcoming marriage to Princess Elia Martell was announced) is also missing.

By the entranceway, Arthur can only scrutinise the room once again, the parchment containing Rhaegar’s latest musing greatly cradled in one hand between callous fingers.

 

Yes, it may all not begin upon this day, but the consequences of the beginning certainly show themselves beneath each punch of thunder striking across the sky.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

Rhaegar Targaryen wakes to rumpled sheets, sweat-slick skin and a riot of red curls. They tickle at his nose, his lips pressing deeper to gift a kiss upon the crown of a skull. Still within slumbers grasp, Hariel parts with a wistful sigh, snuggling deeper into his embrace, little tiny breaths breezing back and forth the only sound within their room to duet with their heartbeats. Across the tent that is far larger on the inside than should be possible, the transparent canvas allows the cresting dawn to illuminate their room, sunlight bleeding across the expanse of their resting place. There is a security here that has been absent, one he hadn’t even been aware he was missing until it surrounded him, a low rolling mist that blurs the outside world from the mind. Only the Dornish heat seeps into their hideaway, the dry scorch already patching the back of his throat. The back of his forearms press against the softness of Hariel’s waist, relaxed abdominals kissing up against his skin with every breath she takes. Her shirt has rumpled, drifting up to expose a strip of pale flesh in their sleep; Rhaegar’s open palm rests against the dip of her waist, fingernails edging around a long since healed scar.

“Good morning.” Exotic twang rolls through the room as Hariel pushes herself utterly and completely into his embrace, back firm against his chest. Her eyes are still closed, black lashes lying flat to brush against her cheeks and pale lips curving up at the corners. A smile blooms into existence on Rhaegar’s own face and he peppers another kiss to her head, burying his nose into the soft skin were neck meets shoulder.

“Morning.” His breath ghosts out across her shoulder blade, another kiss tracing its footsteps and Hariel’s hands close over his own.

It has been nine hours since he stole away under the cover of night’s thunder, leaving nought but a note and the clothes he cares little for. Undoubtedly someone shall have discovered his absence by now, perhaps even his feeble explanation. Soon enough news will stretch across the land, shall reach each corner of Westeros. In time, the people shall know Rhaegar Targaryen is not the perfect prince, a reputation that (while he had not cultivated it with purposeful intent) he has been careful to leave unstained. Whispers and tales will begin, will weave through common-born and highborn alike. Mayhap he shall become the focal of a new song; a love sick prince risking his right to rule all for the love of a woman. Fingers pluck at a red curl, playing as wind does, teasing back and forth as he thinks. Incredibly, the flutter of Hariel’s ribs against his own is reward enough. Truly this must be Targaryen madness, but oh, what an innocent insanity it is.

“Changed your mind yet?”

“No, never.” It had been the announcement that had done it, the proclamation to the rest of the kingdoms of his impending nuptials; the path of his life suddenly stretch for eternity before his very eyes. A married life that, while not filled with torment and sorrow as his mother’s is, would not have been as joyous and fulfilling as it could be. Life with a woman he barely knows when his heart has already been gifted to another, safely settled within territory it shall never migrate from. The beating organ of his chest, separated from his body; Rhaegar had seen a life where he would forever be looking to the horizon and wondering where the owner of his missing heart hides. That sudden moment of realisation, the shockwave and acceptance that he could not live like that. It had been mere hours later that he pleaded for his goddess to run with him. As if she was ever in any state to flee from her circumstances now. No, it is Rhaegar who runs, Rhaegar who feels the burning protest of his muscles as his heart thunders and races, brimming and spilling with the sudden burst of freedom that has filled his rib cage above and beyond total capacity.

Hariel wiggles in his arms, the movement ridiculously unbecoming, until they reside nose to nose. Fingertips brush against collarbones, his own brush against the strip of flesh exposed between shirt and pants. Eyes so bright, bold and striking; Rhaegar quickens a kiss to the top of her nose that has her features scrunching in surprise.

“Good,” Hariel murmurs, thumb brushing over the sharp jut of his clavicle, “‘cause I’m going to keep you for as long as you let me.”

It goes unsaid that he’s risked his position as crown prince for her, that he shall always want her, shall always want to be ‘kept’ by her.

 

Perhaps they are still embedded in the phase of love ballads and romanticism, but Rhaegar cannot imagine a sweeter moment than lying side by side, skin painted by the cresting sun.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

With the… ‘backpack’ hiked up high, straps slug across his shoulders and Hariel’s hand cradled as the precious commodity it is within his grasp, Rhaegar Targaryen stares across the expanse of space that is in actuality the border between Dorne and the Reach. The silent solid forms of the Red Mountains are to their back, a legion of ripened apple tress to their front.

Hariel wanders forwards, meandering with the same drifting ease as the curving river, sweeping back and forth in a lazy merriment of a rush. While her movements are slow, she does not lack for energy, the hand not ensnared within his own reaching to grasp a low hanging apple. Rhaegar has never travelled to this particular corner of the reach, though he has sampled apples brought from this stretch of land during a previous visit to the most fertile region in the Seven Kingdoms. The air is clear, free from any of the stench the capital boasts; it is soothing on the lungs. Hariel bites into her plucked apple, the crisp crunch as noticeable as the juices that trail down her chin. Rhaegar swipes at the rivulets with a thumb, sucking the flavouring from his flesh as Hariel swallows. How strange, to be capable of such a simple action as drawing his thumb across her skin, to be able to remove himself from the hustle of court masks and pretences, to be capable of simply basking in the moment. Their surroundings are luscious, blooming in the summer’s heat yet Hariel’s eyes burn brighter still, the very essence of life, for all that she is Death’s Master. 

“These are good.” He knows; these apples are famous for being some of the best the Reach produces.

When he kisses those lips, with the sweet headiness of summer and promise sweeping his senses, Rhaegar smiles.

 

.

 

The common folk look and then look again as they pass by. It’s the hair; Rhaegar’s own like liquid silk, glimmering white gold beneath the heat of summer’s sun, Hariel’s own blazing tongue of fire spiralling across her shoulders as thousands of grasping strands.

His goddess whispers it is the face, his face that is. Too beautiful by far, she giggles, thumb tracing the gentle hollow of his cheek, the curve of his cheekbone, the cut of his jaw. Lips tilting with blooming warmth for every moment her digits map his profile, long finger tapping at his nose. It’s easy to draw her form close to his, to press her ribs alongside his own. There had been a text, he recalls, old Valyrian in origin, that had spoken of the myth of soulmates. A being the Gods considered too powerful as a whole, a being they severed into two halves. Yet, how can a halfling discover their truest love in the form of a god? How could Rhaegar ever possibly consider accepting another halfling making him whole when Hariel makes him feels so much more than just complete? Perhaps Elia Martell is his destined other half; perhaps Hariel is just that much more powerful, a goddess bound by nothing but her own ethics and morals. This is his selfishness, his greed and his folly. It is a decision he does not regret in the slightest.

 

The common folk stare and for that, Rhaegar cannot fault them. More oft than not, he finds himself gazing upon Hariel in wonder too.

 

 


End file.
